


Breathe

by TrueIllusion



Series: Familiarity [18]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, POV Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk), Physical Disability, Traumatic Brain Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 14:30:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17225783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueIllusion/pseuds/TrueIllusion
Summary: Saturday morning, Justin woke up with one of the worst headaches he’d had since he’d been home. He looked at the clock as briefly as he could, since even the light from the numbers on its display intensified the pain. It wasn’t even 6 a.m. yet. On a fucking Saturday, no less. And now he was probably going to spend the entire day in bed.





	Breathe

_“So what kind of stuff do you do?”_

_“I don’t anymore. I gave it up.”_

_“Christ, if I couldn’t work, I’d wheel myself off a cliff.”_

_“How do you? I mean--”_

_“Work? The way two snails fuck. Very slowly. I’ve got this contraption that I call the one-armed bandit. I strap it to my good arm. That’s the way I direct the brush.”_

_“That sounds hard.”_

_“So what’s easy, besides complaining? … I’ll admit, I wasn’t too pleased after doing a spin-out on the Penn Lincoln Parkway to wake up and discover my tap dancing days were over, let alone painting. In fact, I was offering big bucks to anyone who’d shoot me. You must be feeling the same way. It ain’t the end of the world, kid. Unless you want it to be.”_

*****

Saturday morning, Justin woke up with one of the worst headaches he’d had since he’d been home. He looked at the clock as briefly as he could, since even the light from the numbers on its display intensified the pain. It wasn’t even 6 a.m. yet. On a fucking Saturday, no less. And now he was probably going to spend the entire day in bed.

Not that he had big plans for the day anyhow. He was already feeling depressed after their dinner with Rob, Adam, and their girls the night before. The night had started off great. He’d really enjoyed spending time with Esme and Sophia, who didn’t care about his “hurt hand” as they’d called it, and had treated him no differently than any other time since Rob and Adam had adopted them four years before. It felt good to feel like nothing had changed.

But then he was reminded again of how everything had changed, when Adam had asked him if he was planning on coming back to substitute teach. Justin knew Adam meant well, but the idea of trying to teach right now was overwhelming. He felt like there was no way he could possibly do it, given his current circumstances. How could he show someone how to do something, if he couldn’t do it himself?

Justin rolled over and looked at Brian, who was sleeping soundly next to him, snoring just a little, as he always did. He scooted his body in closer to Brian’s, cuddling up to his side. Brian stirred a little but didn’t wake up. The warmth from Brian’s body made Justin feel a little bit better, even if it didn’t do a damn thing for the pounding in his head.

Brian hadn’t had any more nightmares since he’d started taking the sleeping pills. Justin was thankful for that, because he’d hated hearing and seeing Brian in pain -- be it physical or emotional. He also didn’t like knowing that it had been going on for a long time before he ever found out about it. Brian still wasn’t talking to him about what was happening at his weekly appointments with Rochelle. Justin respected Brian’s right to keep that private if he chose, but he really wished that Brian would be more open about it, so he could help support him.

Justin closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the pain for a few more minutes before he gave up and decided to take his meds, which he knew would knock him out for several hours. But at least if he was asleep, he wouldn’t be noticing how much his head hurt. He slipped out of bed as carefully and quietly as he could, then shuffled into the bathroom in the dark, where he operated solely with the ambient glow of the city from outside their bedroom window being cast into the bathroom, because there was no fucking way he could turn the light on with his head like this.

He had to struggle to hold the prescription bottle against his body with his right wrist while he unscrewed the cap with his left hand. Even the non-childproof ones were a bitch to open when you couldn’t grip the bottle itself, but he didn’t want to wake Brian up, so he was determined to do it himself. When he finally got it, he shook two out onto the counter and repeated the struggle in reverse to put the lid back on the bottle. He picked the pills up and popped them in his mouth with his left hand, then turned on the faucet, filled up a glass, and gulped down some water. He hoped the meds would take effect quickly. In the meantime, he thought having something cool on his head might help, so he took a washcloth out of the closet and ran it under cold water, then brought it with him to bed.

When he got back, Brian was awake -- sort of.

“You ‘kay?” he mumbled. He was blinking like he was struggling to stay awake. Justin had noticed that on the rare occasions when Brian did wake up in the middle of the night now, his speech was slurred, and he never remembered what had been said in the morning. Justin recalled that well from his own experience with using medication to escape endless nightmares after the bashing.

“Headache,” Justin said quietly as he slipped back into bed and laid the damp washcloth over his forehead.

“M’sorry,” Brian whispered, losing the battle to keep his eyes open.

Justin wished he could fall asleep that easily. Hopefully the pills he’d just taken would kick in soon.

He pressed his body against Brian’s again, sort of spooning him as best he could with himself on his side and Brian on his stomach. The cool washcloth on his head felt good -- a pleasant sensation amidst the pain. Brian threw his arm over Justin and tugged him in even closer -- whether consciously or unconsciously, Justin wasn’t sure. Regardless, it felt nice. Being with Brian always made Justin feel safe. Secure. At peace.

Justin spent a while longer watching his partner sleep, longing to feel at least a tiny bit of the peace and contentment he could see so clearly on Brian’s face. He knew Brian wanted that for him as well. He could see how badly Brian wanted to fix this for him -- to make it all go away and have everything suddenly be exactly the way it was before. But that wasn’t possible, and they both knew that.

Justin wanted to feel happy again, too, but sometimes it still felt so out-of-reach. Not as much as it had a few weeks before, but still not quite within his grasp. Every time it felt like he was making progress, reality would somehow smack him right in the face and knock him backward.

Gradually, the throbbing in his skull started to dull a bit, and he felt a medication-induced fog descending over him. He focused on the soft rise and fall of Brian’s breath against his body, letting himself fall into unconsciousness alongside his partner.

He woke up a few hours later, alone in the bed, curled into a ball with his arms wrapped around his head. The pounding had intensified again. He wanted to cry. Sunlight was streaming in the window, through the tiny cracks in the blinds, and it might as well have been knife blades piercing Justin’s skull. He let out a small, pained whimper as he rolled over.

He heard Brian come back into the room, and tried to open his eyes to look at him, but quickly found that he couldn’t. He felt Brian’s hands rubbing lightly over his back, which was about all of the touch he could take at the moment. Then, he felt something cold on his the back of his neck -- the ice wrap Brian had bought him while he was still in rehab.

“This should help with the pain,” Brian said, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. Brian knew exactly how to talk to him and how to touch him when he felt like this -- lightly, quietly...barely there. But still, there.

Justin immediately felt his tense muscles begin to relax and soften, and soon he drifted back off to sleep.

When he woke up again, the headache was nearly gone, and he’d slept until almost lunchtime. Yet another reason why he felt he probably wouldn’t be able to teach -- he was still sleeping so damn much. Sometimes he felt like he spent almost half of his day napping, either because he had a headache, or was trying to not get one, or because he was just so fucking tired. His neurologist kept telling him to just listen to his body and do what it said -- that if he was tired, he should sleep. That it would help his brain recover. But it still made him feel like an unproductive lump, even though he knew Brian would take issue with that if he ever said it out loud. He also wasn’t exactly sure at this point what he’d be productive with, even if he wasn’t spending so much time sleeping. It wasn’t like he could draw or paint. And there wasn’t really anything else he wanted to do.

He could hear Brian talking in the living room in a low voice, apparently on the phone.

“I just want him to be out of fucking pain. It's wearing on him. It sucks not being able to do anything about it. … Yeah, I know. It still sucks though. … Thanks. … I need to go, too. I'll tell him you love him. … Yeah, me too. Bye, Jen.”

Brian came into the room about thirty seconds later. Justin rolled over to face him, grateful that he could open his eyes this time.

“Feeling better?” Brian asked.

“Yeah. Fuck...that was awful.”

“It seemed like it was a bad one. When I woke up, you were moaning in your sleep, and it looked like you couldn’t get comfortable.”

“I just wish they would stop.”

“So do I. I hate seeing you like that. It makes me wish there was something I could do, even though I know there isn't. I just got off the phone with your mom… She sends her love.”

Justin rolled onto his back and sighed. “I miss her.”

“I know. Me too.” Brian was looking down at his hands in his lap, twisting his fingers around each other like he was at a loss for what to do or say. “You hungry? Thirsty? I can make you some tea.” Like always, Brian wanted -- needed -- to do something to help. To take action. But Justin didn’t need him to do that. All Justin really needed right now was Brian.

“I’m okay right now. Fuck, I feel so useless. Like I should be doing something other than just lying around, but I don't know what else to do. I don’t feel like doing much else.”

Brian parked his chair by the bed and slid his body onto the mattress, pulling his legs up, then scooting closer to Justin before settling onto his side, facing him.

“Listen to me. Are you listening?” Brian’s gaze was intensely focused on Justin, yet still soft. “You’re not useless. The only thing you need to do -- the only thing I want you to do -- is whatever feels good to you,” he said, starting to trace a lazy, random pattern over Justin’s arm with his fingers. “Whatever makes you comfortable, even if it’s only for a few minutes. I’ve been there. I know how it feels to be in pain that feels like it's never going to end, whether it's physical or not. Do what works for you.”

“If only I could figure out exactly what that is. I feel like there are things people would have expected of me before, that I can’t do now. So I just sort of feel stuck. Like I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, fuck expectations. You do whatever you can -- whatever you want to -- and that’s fine. That’s enough. I just want you to be happy. No matter what that looks like.”

They were both quiet for several seconds, Brian looking at Justin, until Justin had to look away. He still didn't know what would make him happy.

“I know you probably wanted me to say yes to Adam’s offer last night,” he said softly, still not looking at Brian.

“It’s not my decision to make. It’s yours. Do you feel like you should have?”

“I said no because I don’t feel like I can. I’d like to, but I don’t know how I could.”

“If you really want to, I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

Justin wasn’t sure exactly what that way would be, but maybe it was time to try to figure that out.

Justin had missed creating, and the time he’d spent with Esme and Sophia had reminded him of that. Sitting there, in the floor of Esme’s room, Justin had felt the happiest he’d been since before Christmas. Even though he wasn’t the one doing the creating, he’d felt more like himself.

He wanted to feel that way again.

On Monday morning, Justin waited until Brian had left the apartment to start his full day of client meetings, then decided to go to his studio. Quietly. Without fanfare. Without Brian knowing. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do once he got there, but he just felt drawn to go.

He rode the subway there just like he had thousands of times. Walked up the steps, out onto the sidewalk. Punched in the door code to get into the building, then rode the elevator up to the sixth floor. He hoped he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew, because he really didn’t want to answer any questions about where he’d been and what had happened to him and why he wouldn’t take his right hand out of his coat pocket.

He took a deep breath as he stuck his key in the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open.

It looked exactly as it had back in December. Like it was frozen in time. He was the last one who had been there, mere hours before he’d left to drive to Pittsburgh. Hours before his life changed forever. Before his art career was taken from him.

There were paintings leaning against the far wall, in a sort of makeshift display. As he looked at them, studying their arrangement, he had a sudden flashback of being here, with Brian. Picking out paintings for the show. Planning their road trip. How everything had seemed so perfect. Like it was all falling into place so beautifully.

How had it all fallen apart just as quickly?

Justin wished more than anything that he could turn back time and respectfully decline the opportunity to show his art in Pittsburgh. In a way, that show -- which was supposed to be a celebration, a homecoming -- had taken away his entire career. If it hadn’t been for that show, he would never have been in Brian’s car hurtling down a dark highway in the snow. He would have flown into Pittsburgh with Brian, as planned, a few days later. Safe and sound. And his right hand would still work. At least, as well as it had before.

The tubes of paint he’d chosen for the piece he’d been working on before he’d left for Pittsburgh were still laid out on his workbench, clean brushes alongside them.

And the half-finished painting stood on the easel.

He recognized his carefully blended colors -- the gradient of cadmium red and yellow. The bold strokes. The signature style that people had come to expect from and associate with Justin Taylor.

The strokes and the style that he might not ever be able to produce again.

Suddenly, he was no longer feeling as confident or as hopeful as he had been when he’d decided to come to his studio. Instead, he’d been reminded of the fact that he could no longer work in the same way he did before. Reality had yet again knocked him right on his ass. He could feel himself starting the downward spiral, but he felt powerless to stop it.

Would he even be able to finish this painting now? Or would he only be ruining it if he tried?

Would it be better to leave well enough alone? To leave it half finished, as the visual testament to the final moments of his career as an artist, before everything he’d worked so hard for was ripped away from him on an icy highway east of Pittsburgh?

Justin felt caught somewhere between a deep sadness and an intense, all-consuming rage. It wasn’t long before the rage won out.

Before he could stop himself, he raked his useless right hand over the surface of the workbench, knocking the tubes of paint and the brushes to the floor, where they landed in a haphazard pile. What the fuck did it matter? It wasn’t like he’d be using them again. Might as well leave them there.

Next, he went over to the half-used box of blank canvases in the corner -- canvases he’d never have the opportunity to turn into art -- and kicked it, turning it over and sending it skittering across the floor, canvases spilling out onto the tile.

Drafts were torn down from the wall. Sketchbooks were thrown and pages ripped out unceremoniously and tossed to the floor. Easels were turned over and kicked into walls. One by one, every surface was cleared of its contents, all of which ended up on the floor.

He bent down and picked up the exacto-knife he’d just knocked to the floor, turning it over in his hand. Watching the blade reflect the sunlight coming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows along the wall. He looked up at the half-finished canvas, still standing on the easel in front of him. Taunting him.

It would be so easy to just destroy it now. Shred it. Cut it up into pieces. Let it all fall to the floor along with everything else.

With a trembling hand, Justin pressed the blade of the knife against the surface of the painting. He didn’t know why he couldn’t bring himself to press down -- to drive the blade through the canvas. To make it bleed, just like he felt like his soul was bleeding as he looked at the evidence of the artist he’d been and thought about what he would become. A has-been. A tragedy. A sad story people would tell.

Oh, poor Justin Taylor. What happened to him was so awful. It’s such a shame. He had such promise.

The knife slipped through his shaking fingers and fell to the floor, the metal clinking against the tile.

Then, just as quickly as the rage had taken hold, sadness won out again, and Justin collapsed to the floor in front of the easel, where he sat sobbing and gasping for breath and pounding his hands against the floor until they were aching -- even the one that was half numb.

He didn’t know why he’d come here. What he’d expected to do. What he’d expected to feel.

He knew what he did feel, though. Like he didn’t belong here anymore.

So he left. He didn’t bother cleaning up. It was all garbage anyhow.

Returning home after visiting his studio felt like a walk of shame. How delusional he’d been to think that going there would make him feel inspired. Instead, it had made him feel defeated. He still missed creating, but now he felt even more like there was no hope he’d ever do it again. How could he ever put his work out there in the world again -- attach his name to things that were nothing like what he’d made before?

He collapsed onto the sofa, still unable to control his emotions. This time, it was just the tears. There was no anger. He’d used all of that up.

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, feeling sorry for himself, when he heard a knock on the door.

He had no idea who it would be. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and Brian wasn't due back until later that afternoon. Besides, Brian had a key -- he wouldn’t be knocking anyhow.

Justin was considering not answering at all when whoever it was knocked again, more loudly this time.

Trying to quickly collect himself, Justin got up and walked over to the door, unlocked it and pulled it open, revealing Rob on the other side. Rob’s expression quickly became concerned as soon as his gaze met Justin’s.

“Brian’s not here right now,” Justin said, wiping his cheeks with the back of his left hand and cursing the fact that he was sure his eyes were red and swollen. He stepped aside so Rob could come in, then closed the door behind him.

“I know. I’m here to talk to you. Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Did Brian send you over here to try to fix me?” Justin wasn’t even sure why he’d said that. He knew Brian only wanted to help him, and even if Brian had sent Rob over, it would have been because he thought it would help. But he was getting so fucking frustrated with how he was feeling, that sometimes it led to him saying things he didn’t completely mean.

“No, not at all.” Rob looked confused now. “He doesn’t even know I’m here. What’s wrong?”

“I went to my studio today.” Justin was staring down at his shoes, still feeling ashamed for having gone there at all. “I don’t even know why I went. What I thought I would do. There’s nothing I can do.”

“I think Brian would be proud of you for going.” Rob came a little closer, looking up at Justin, who still didn’t feel like he could make eye contact. “I’m proud of you for going. Even if you didn’t do anything, you went. That’s a good first step.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever go back.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s not who I am anymore.”

“What, an artist? Why would you not be an artist anymore, just because you can’t use your hand?”

“I can’t create.” Justin walked over to the armchair in the corner of the living room and sat down in it, putting his head in his hands. Rob followed and parked his chair directly in front of Justin.

“Yes, you can.” Rob’s voice was insistent. Clearly, he believed in Justin much more than Justin believed in himself at the moment. “You just have to find a different way to do it. There are plenty of ways to make art. You’re an artist, Justin. You’ll always be an artist. It’s just who you are.”

“You don’t get it. It’s just like it was after I was bashed, when I couldn’t draw. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I feel like I don’t know who I am now. At least back then, I got enough function back to be able to draw for a few minutes before my fucking hand seized up on me. Now, I still can’t hold a pencil or a paintbrush, and I’m not sure I’m going to. I haven’t seen any real progress in a few weeks now. Nothing is really changing anymore. I think they’re afraid to tell me that I might not be able to expect anything more.” Justin finally managed to look Rob in the eye, halfway expecting to see the same sadness he saw when he looked at Brian most of the time nowadays, but instead he just saw empathy and understanding, free from sadness.

“Have you told Brian about any of this?”

Justin sighed. “I can’t talk about it with Brian, because it makes him feel bad. It’s like he feels guilty and I don’t know why, and then I feel guilty for upsetting him. So I just keep it to myself.”

“You should talk to him. He wants to help you. But he doesn’t know what to do to help. All he wants is for you to be happy. I understand how you might feel like that’s a lot of pressure, though.”

“I just don’t know if there’s anything he can do. Maybe the new me is just sad. How could I not be? I can’t do anything.”

“Let me tell you a story. You know I was injured right after I graduated from college, but did you know that I went to college on an athletic scholarship?”

Justin shook his head.

“I played baseball,” Rob continued. “Played it my whole life up until that point. Went to the Little League World Series when I was in 6th grade. I made all my friends through baseball. Spent all of my free time playing or practicing or trying to get better at one aspect of the game or another. I’d just finished my senior season. Got my degree, got a job, and then, this.” He pushed his hands down on the tires of his wheelchair and shifted his weight a little. “Paralyzed from the chest down. Talk about feeling like you’ve had everything you’ve ever known stripped away from you. Not really knowing how you’re going to still be the person you’ve always been, when you can’t do what you’ve always done. I know it sucks.”

Justin nodded and looked down at his right hand, laying in his lap, fingers curled just slightly into a curve as it sat idle. Not much different from how it looked when he tried to use it. It was still throbbing from being pounded against the floor of his studio as he was losing his goddamn mind.

“And I know for a lot of people, the solution would be finding some other way to do what they always did, but for me, that didn’t feel possible. It wouldn’t be the same. I wasn’t interested in it unless it would feel the same. Maybe that’s how you feel right now. I spent a few years feeling really down on myself, trying to figure out who I was and who I would be now. My friends didn’t really know how to relate to me, and a lot of them stopped coming around. I was still living with my parents, and I never left my bedroom unless I absolutely had to. Believe me, my parents tried everything, and I didn’t want to hear any of it. All I wanted to do was sit there and think about how my entire life had gone down the crapper, just because I thought it would be fun to jump off a cliff into a lake. I’d fucked everything up in a split second and it was all my fault. I was angry at everything and everybody. My mom finally got fed up with it and practically dragged me to see a therapist. One of the things the therapist recommended was yoga, and I laughed in her face. I remember asking her if she was crazy. If she was somehow not seeing that I came in there in a wheelchair. How the fuck was I going to do yoga?”

“I always wondered how you got started with that.”

“That was how. I told her I felt like two-thirds of me was dead and the rest of me might as well be. She wanted to challenge me on that. I agreed to try it, mostly to prove that it wouldn't do anything for me, but fuck if she wasn’t right. The rest of my body wasn’t dead -- it just spoke to me in a more subtle way, and I had to learn how to listen. I was still a whole person. Not just a head, shoulders, and arms.”

“I’m not sure that would fix my hand, though.”

“It didn’t fix my legs either. What it fixed was my head. The way I thought about the world, and my role in it. How I think about my body and how I connect to it. How I relate to everything around me. It changed my whole outlook. Taught me that it’s not about how something looks or how you get there -- only that you do, in your own way. And I’m not here to put any more pressure on you or make you feel like you have to do something. I just want you to know that I’m here, and I’m willing to help you in any way I can. I know it’s hard to ask the people closest to you for help sometimes, because they’re so invested that you feel like if it doesn’t work out, you’ve failed them too. So I’m just here to be a neutral third-party. Whether it’s yoga, or whether it’s something totally different. I’m on your side. You’re my friend as much as Brian is. So if there’s anything I can do, just say the word and I’ll do it. No pressure. I’m just here if you want me. And if you don’t, that’s fine too.”

“I’m just not sure what would really help.”

“The only thing I agreed to try at first, even though I really wasn’t sure it was going to do much of anything, was the breathing. She made me promise I’d keep trying that at least, and told me the next time I got pissed off or wanted to tell someone to go fuck themselves, I should just breathe.”

Justin laughed. Maybe Rob did get it.

“Yeah, I laughed too,” Rob said, smiling. “But she showed me how to breathe, and it really did help. I could show you how. Only if you want me to. Try it with me? It’s okay to say no. You won’t be hurting my feelings.”

“Okay,” Justin said hesitantly. “I’ll try it.” He still wasn’t sure about any of this, but what did he have to lose?

Rob shifted so he was sitting up a little straighter, then put his right hand on his lower abdomen. “Put your hand right here on your belly.”

Justin started with his right hand, out of sheer habit, before quickly switching to his left.

“Either one is fine,” Rob said. “Whichever one you’re comfortable with.”

Justin settled on his left hand, bringing it to rest on his lower belly.

“Okay, now this part will actually be easier for you than it is for me. Your ab muscles will help you make the breath deeper. Think about breathing in three parts...filling up the bottom of your lungs and into your belly, where your hand is, then filling the rest of your abdomen, and then the top of your lungs last. Just like you’re pouring water into a pitcher, only you’re filling your lungs with air. Then you breathe out in reverse, top to bottom, emptying your lungs completely. Then do it again.”

It felt good to breathe deeply like that. It reminded Justin a little bit of the way he’d been taught to breathe through a panic attack all those years ago, but he hadn’t needed to use it in a long time. So he hadn’t given much thought to his breath lately, or realized how shallow his breathing typically was, but this made him conscious of it. Rob had his eyes closed, so Justin closed his too, as Rob led him through a few more cycles of breath. Then, they just breathed together in silence. Justin already felt a bit better, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the breathing or from the knowledge that someone else really understood how he felt, right down to the pressure he was feeling to not cause Brian any pain in the process of dealing with his own.

Justin could feel himself starting to relax, when he heard Rob’s voice again -- soft and compassionate.

“Then, when you’re feeling a little calmer, you can go back to your natural breath.”

Justin opened his eyes and saw Rob smiling at him, his eyes sparkling.

“So, if you feel like giving that a try, you’ve got that in your arsenal, okay?” Rob looked at his watch. “I have to get back to the office. But you can call me any time. If you just need someone to talk to. I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener.” He laid his hand on Justin’s knee and gave it a squeeze. “No pressure from me. Only the knowledge that I’m here if you think you can use me.”

“Thanks,” Justin said quietly. He felt like he should say more, but didn’t really know what else to say.

Rob angled himself so he could give Justin a hug.

“I mean it,” he said. “Call me any time.”

“I will.”

Rob gave Justin one last reassuring smile, then let himself out, leaving Justin sitting in the chair, thinking about everything Rob had just said.

Brian came home a couple of hours later, while Justin was working his way through the stretching he was supposed to do to keep his hand as flexible as possible. Brian hung his coat up by the door and deposited his briefcase on the bar between the kitchen and the living room, then came over to Justin and took Justin’s hand in his own, continuing to stretch it gently, massaging the tense muscles. It felt good, even though his hand was still sore from his temper tantrum earlier at his studio. He’d decided not to tell Brian about that. About any of it, really. Not even Rob’s visit. He knew that telling Brian the details of what had happened would only cause Brian pain and guilt. So it was best kept to himself.

He gave Brian a vague answer when Brian asked what he’d done today, and tried to ignore the concerned look on Brian’s face. Justin was sure that Brian was imagining he’d spent yet another day sitting in the apartment not doing much of anything. While Justin still didn’t feel like he’d accomplished anything, the day had certainly not been typical.

The rest of the night was a lot more typical -- Brian ordering takeout for dinner from the Thai restaurant that had recently opened only a couple of blocks from their building, and the two of them wrapped in each other’s arms on the sofa. Justin fell asleep that night with Brian’s arms around him, feeling Brian’s steady breathing against his back.

The next day, Brian had another full day of meetings with clients, which left Justin to his own devices yet again. He’d felt fine when Brian left, but it wasn’t long before his head started to hurt. He closed all of the blinds in the living room and the bedroom and crawled into bed, hoping that rest and darkness would ease the pain without him having to take anything, since he didn’t want to be asleep or zoned-out for the better part of the day. Not that he had any plans; he just didn’t like the way he felt after the pills wore off. Like he was in a fog. But after an hour with his head buried under the pillow and the pain only getting worse, Justin realized he wasn’t going to have a choice. He climbed out of bed and padded slowly into the bathroom, where he grabbed the bottle that contained his pain medication and started trying to open it. Only, the lid wouldn’t budge.

He must have put it on wrong when he took them in the middle of the night on Saturday -- that was the only explanation, because he hadn’t touched the bottle since then, and he was fairly sure Brian wouldn’t have either. Squinting at the label, he made sure he had the right bottle and hadn’t accidentally grabbed something of Brian’s, but it was his. Again and again, he tried to open it, feeling like all of his frustration was going straight to his head, making the pounding even more intense. He could feel the anger bubbling up inside him, threatening to take control.

He kept trying to open the bottle, noticing his breath getting more rapid as he became more and more desperate to just get the damn thing open so he could get some relief. Tears of frustration were pricking at the corners of his eyes as he struggled with the lid, wishing more than anything that he had two fully functional hands. He tried holding it as best he could in his right hand, then holding it against his body, against the counter, and even trying to clutch it between his thighs, but nothing provided a solid enough grip for him to get the lid to turn.

Why couldn’t he do this one simple fucking thing for himself? He was an adult; he shouldn’t need his partner there to do everything for him all the time. But because of his goddamn gimp hand, apparently he did. And that pissed him off even more.

Before he even knew what he was doing, he’d taken the bottle in his good hand and slammed it into the mirror, shattering it. Jagged pieces fell to the floor, and the tears finally let go as his knees gave out and he fell to the floor too, his chest heaving as he cried. He couldn’t even pick out the emotion he was feeling. Was it sadness, or was it anger, or was it something else entirely? The only thing he knew for sure was that he felt out of control, and he was scared to death. He wished Brian was home, because right now all he wanted was to feel Brian’s arms around him and to hear Brian’s voice telling him he was okay, even if he didn’t quite believe it. Maybe if he heard it enough, he’d start to. And maybe then it would come true.

But Brian wouldn’t be back for hours. And there Justin sat, amid the broken glass with nothing but a throbbing head, an unopened pill bottle, and the unidentifiable but incredibly intense emotion that was soaking his shirt with tears and keeping him from catching his breath. He leaned against the wall by the shower, tilting his head back so he could feel the coolness of the tile against the back of his head. What was happening to him? Was he having a panic attack? He didn’t think he was, but he couldn’t be sure. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his elbows on them, burying his face in trembling hands. All he wanted was some relief. For at least some small part of this to be fixed. Justin knew none of this was fixing anything, but he also didn’t know how to stop. And that was scary too.

Suddenly, through the haze of anger and frustration and helplessness, Justin could hear the echo of Rob’s words in his head: Just breathe.

He tried to get control over his breath, but it was hard. He could hear himself gasping, and knew he needed to stop before he ended up hyperventilating, because then he would be in trouble, especially since he was alone.

Justin sat up against the wall again and concentrated on breathing in slowly. It still wasn’t exactly slow, but it was at least a longer and steadier breath than he’d been taking. He tried to breathe out just as steadily, fighting the impulse to make his next inhale short and quick. Remembering what Rob had taught him, he brought his left hand to his belly and tried to fill that space on his next inhalation, making his breath deeper. That helped him slow it down even more. He closed his eyes and tried to focus only on his breath -- the movement of air in and out, keeping it slow and steady.

Soon, he was lost in that action, feeling the chaotic emotions that had taken him over when he’d smashed the mirror finally begin to ebb. His head still hurt, but it no longer felt like it was about to explode. He didn’t know how long he sat there, leaning against the tile, just breathing. But when he finally opened his eyes, the panic and the fear were gone, and his head had cleared enough for him to realize that something needed to change. He couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t keep feeling this way -- not knowing what was going to set him off next, or what he’d be driven to do once it happened.

He remembered the list of doctors and therapists and other medical experts they’d brought home with them when he was released from rehab, and the number listed at the bottom that he’d thought he would never call -- a psychologist. But maybe it was time. Maybe he could use some help in sorting through what he was feeling.

Carefully, Justin pushed himself up off the floor and stood, keeping a hand on the wall in case his knees buckled again. When he felt surer that he’d be able to let go of the wall without falling, he stepped over the remnants of shattered glass that still littered the bathroom floor and went out into the kitchen, where the list of names and phone numbers that had been given to him and Brian at the rehab center hung on the fridge. The magnet that held it to the refrigerator door was a small picture frame, with a photo of him and Brian on a beach at sunset, that he vaguely recalled being taken several years before at a cabin on Lake Michigan. They were smiling. Happy. Justin wanted to feel that way again, just as much as he wanted to feel like himself again.

But in order to do that, first he needed to dig his way out of the quagmire he currently found himself in. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he knew he needed someone to help him do that. All he’d succeeded in doing on his own was digging a deeper hole. He wondered if what he’d experienced today was what Brian had warned him about -- how scary things got when it all became too much and you couldn’t hold it inside anymore.

Justin picked up his phone from the counter and dialed the number. His thumb hesitated over the “send” button for a few seconds before he took a deep breath and pressed it, waiting for the call to connect. Willing himself not to hang up.

It took him a few more seconds to speak after the receptionist answered the phone, but he managed to set up an appointment for the next week. Justin wasn’t sure if he felt proud or apprehensive, but at least he’d done something. Now, he just had to show up to the appointment and hope that it would help.

Justin carried his phone over to the sofa and sat down, lying back on the pillows and closing his eyes. He knew he needed to eat, but the pain in his head had completely taken away his appetite. Bringing his consciousness back to his breath, he imagined the pain leaving his body with each exhalation. Slowly, he felt his body relax until he drifted off to sleep.

When he woke up, the angle of the sun had changed, but he was still alone in the apartment. Picking up his phone again, Justin glanced at the time and realized that Brian would be home soon. With the throbbing in his head now reduced to a dull ache, reality started to set in when he realized that he was going to have to explain to Brian what had happened to the mirror, and that he wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say. The least he could do, though, was clean up the mess.

He pushed himself up off the sofa and retrieved the broom and dustpan from the closet in the hallway, before continuing on to the bathroom. Justin was still sweeping up glass when he heard Brian’s voice behind him, bearing a slight note of panic.

“What the fuck happened? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Justin said, his calm tone contrasting with Brian’s. “I got frustrated, and I broke the mirror. But I’m better now.”

“Jesus Christ,” Brian breathed, now looking more concerned and confused. “Frustrated about what?”

“I couldn’t get my pain pills open.”

“And you broke the mirror with the bottle? With your hand? How? Did you cut yourself?”

“I’m fine. I swear.” Justin swept up the last of the tiniest bits of glass into the dustpan, leaned the broom against the wall, then turned to face Brian, holding his hands up so Brian could see them. “No cuts, no blood. But I realized something.”

Brian looked at him almost apprehensively, but didn’t say anything. Brian’s hazel eyes studied Justin’s blue ones intently.

“I realized I didn’t want to feel that way anymore,” Justin said, looking away. “So I called and I made an appointment with a therapist.”

Brian closed his eyes and breathed out what sounded like a sigh of relief as he took Justin’s hand and pulled him onto his lap, wrapping his arms around Justin in a tight embrace. For a long time, Brian just held him.

After a few minutes of silence, he spoke.

“I’m proud of you,” Brian whispered. “So fucking proud of you.”

The next week was relatively uneventful, thankfully. Justin chose not to poke the bear by trying to go to his studio again, so he spent the time when he wasn't at physical or occupational therapy at home, mostly poking around on the internet instead, researching random things, including more breathing exercises he could try, and even attempting a little bit of yoga, although he still hadn’t worked up the courage to reach out to Rob.

Brian let Justin go to his therapy appointment alone without even the slightest bit of objection over him taking a cab there by himself, despite the fact that Justin was so fucking nervous he was practically shaking, even before he left the apartment. Brian had simply hugged him and kissed him and told him to be careful, and if he noticed the trembling, he didn’t say anything.

The appointment went fairly well, Justin guessed. He’d never really done this kind of thing before -- aside from the time his mom had dragged him to a therapist and he’d openly declared his love for cock. This time was nothing like that one.

The session was mostly focused on the therapist, John, getting up to speed on what had been going on in Justin’s life and what he was feeling. Where he’d been before the accident, where he was now, and where he hoped to be in the future. That had been the hardest one to answer, because right now, where he wanted to be and where he realistically could expect to be felt very different. John had done a lot of nodding, and quite a bit of writing that made Justin nervous even though he’d been told not to be.

They’d talked about how hopeless Justin felt about most everything. How frustrated he was. What had made him feel good in the past, that he could try again in order to boost his mood.

Justin rode home trying to think of things he could try, but all he could think of was sex, and the fact that the only time he really felt good now -- instead of guilty or bad or regretful -- was when he and Brian were having sex. And he suspected Brian might share at least some of those feelings, particularly given how fucking had once been the way Brian had dealt with most of his emotions. Just because Brian wasn’t tricking anymore, didn’t mean that he didn’t still have a lot of his emotional intelligence wrapped up in sex. And apparently some of that had transferred to Justin.

Justin wasn’t sure that sex was exactly what John had in mind when he suggested doing more things that made him feel good, but for right now, it would work.

Even though sex with Brian was always great and Justin would take it however he could get it, there were things he missed. Things he wondered if Brian missed as well. And that got him wondering… Thinking about ways that they could do more.

He supposed he could ask Rob for advice -- and figured Rob and Brian had probably already broached the subject a long time ago -- but the thought of asking those kinds of questions of one of his husband’s best friends made him cringe. So he turned to the internet, and soon found something interesting -- a low-set seat that acted as a sort of swing, that moved with very little effort and seemed like it would open up a whole plethora of different positions for them.

A few minutes later, Justin had his credit card out, placing an order.

When his purchase arrived a couple of days later, Justin anxiously unboxed it and set it up in their bedroom while Brian was out. He was excited to try it, but he didn’t want to just pull Brian straight into the bedroom as soon as he got home. He wanted it to be special, even though he knew Brian would probably laugh at him for thinking that. So, on the spur of the moment, Justin decided to turn his big reveal into a full-on romantic evening, complete with a candle-lit dinner.

He was just finishing up cooking when Brian opened the door. Perfect timing.

“You must be feeling better,” Brian said, raising his eyebrow as he hung up his coat and came over to the dining room table, where two candles illuminated the plates of salad Justin had already put together. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I just wanted to surprise you,” Justin stated simply as he turned off the stove and covered the steaming pot of eggplant curry with a lid. He’d plate up the rice and curry once they’d finished their salads. The curry was a new recipe that Ben had shared on social media the week before, and Justin hoped Brian would like it. Justin had already sampled it and thought it was delicious, but he wasn’t exactly a picky eater. Brian liked exotic flavors, but sometimes his list of preferred foods could be a bit less than diverse.

“Well, it’s a nice surprise.” Brian came into the kitchen and tugged on Justin’s arm, pulling him down so he could kiss him. “Thank you.”

Justin smiled, knowing that the dinner wasn’t the only surprise he had for Brian. The rest would have to wait, though. In the meantime, they’d enjoy their meal.

The look on Brian’s face when he took his first bite of the curry was worth every bit of the effort Justin had put into it. Chopping the vegetables with his left hand while trying to hold them with his right and not accidentally cut his fingers had been a challenge -- and it had taken a while -- but he’d done it. Maybe soon they could get back to their impromptu kitchen competitions Brian had been telling him about. They sounded fun.

Once they’d finished their dinner, Justin cleared the table, barely able to contain his excitement about the rest of the surprise he had for Brian. He hoped Brian would like it, too.

“I have another surprise for you in the bedroom,” Justin said, grinning as he returned to the table after putting the plates and silverware in the dishwasher.

“Well, since you’re out here with me, and you still have your clothes on, I’m guessing it’s not you.” Brian quirked his eyebrow upward again as he cocked his head just slightly to the side and stuck his tongue in his cheek. God, that look drove Justin crazy, in a good way.

“Depends on your perspective,” Justin said, perhaps more seductively than that phrase had ever been uttered.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Brian laughed. “Are we having a threesome? Has there been some guy hiding in our bedroom all evening?”

“Nope, not a threesome… Follow me…”

Justin led Brian down the hallway to the bedroom, where his purchase was already set up by the bed.

“I found this thing...on the internet,” Justin said.

“What the fuck is it?” Brian moved himself closer, looking skeptically between Justin and the chair.

“Sit on it.”

“You bought me a chair?”

“Not just any chair. Seriously, try it out.”

Brian slid his body over to it, causing it to rock back and forth underneath him.

“Christ, it moves. You’ve gotta warn a guy about that.”

“Sorry. Yes, it moves,” Justin said, in his best sultry voice as he gave the chair a gentle push. “Feel familiar?”

Justin knelt in front of Brian and started unbuttoning his shirt, then kissed his way across Brian’s collarbone. He pulled his own shirt over his head and caressed Brian’s shoulders, sliding his shirt off as his hands continued down Brian’s arms. Once Brian’s shirt was off, Justin moved on to Brian’s pants, unbuttoning them with his left hand as he lightly scraped the fingernails of his right across Brian’s hips, just to give Brian a little taste of what was to come.

“Are you getting it now?” Justin whispered.

Brian nodded and pressed his hands down on the sides of the seat to lift his hips up a little, so Justin could slide his pants down farther. Justin took off Brian’s shoes and socks, then his pants, before removing his own. He teased Brian’s cock until it was ready, then kissed Brian hard and whispered, “Fuck me,” in his ear.

Justin handed Brian the bottle of lube, pulled two of the pillows off the bed to prop himself up on, then got on his knees in front of Brian, who wasted no time in preparing Justin for what he figured was probably their first time fucking like this since before Brian got hurt. Brian’s hands gripped Justin’s hips, and Justin could feel Brian using his body as leverage to push himself back and forth. Relishing the sensation that came along with being in a different position, at a different angle, Justin was quickly approaching his peak, although he was trying to hold it back. He pushed backward into Brian, hoping his partner was loving this as much as he was. A quick glance back over his shoulder revealed Brian with his eyes closed and his head tipped back, clearly enjoying what was happening. Brian pressed his hips against Justin’s ass again and again as he thrust into Justin, until Justin could no longer hold back his orgasm and collapsed onto the pillows. He felt Brian move himself down to the floor alongside him, draping an arm over Justin’s chest and burying his face in Justin’s collarbone.

“How the hell did you find that thing?” Brian said breathlessly.

“Oh, I have my ways.”

“Christ...I never thought I’d be able to do that again.”

“I know. That’s why I wanted to make it happen for you. Open up our options a little.”

In truth, Justin had bought the chair because while what they could do in Brian’s wheelchair and in the shower and of course in the bedroom were all great and he loved it all, the Brian he’d known for so many years had always liked being in control. Brian had never been a passive partner. There was a reason that Brian’s fucks were legendary in gay Pittsburgh. Even now, he was as active as he could be given the limitations of how he could move. But this setup brought with it all sorts of new possibilities to add to their repertoire, and put Brian back in control. Justin liked being able to do that for him.

Now, if only he could do more to feel like he was putting himself back in control of his own life. He knew he’d taken a couple of steps in the right direction -- being conscious of how he was feeling and using his breath to get back in control of it, and making (and keeping) an appointment with a therapist. It felt good to do that, instead of continuing to wish for everything to go back to exactly like it was before.

The truth was, things were probably never going to be the way they were before, ever again. But for some reason, now, that truth felt a lot less scary. At least, for the time being.

Justin still wasn’t sure he was ready to go back to his studio again -- not yet -- but he’d taken those first two steps toward being back in control. And that felt good.


End file.
